Saturday, February 13, 2016

A Recipe to Cure Depression



Ingredients:

Grandma’s kitchen
1 cup of flour
1 cup of sugar
1 tbs. of favorite cousin’s smile
2 bags of Nestle’s semi-sweet chocolate chips
1/4 cup of Grandpa’s familiar, rich pipe tobacco that permeated the house every Thanksgiving and Christmas.
2 tbs. of vanilla extract
1 cup of Mom’s congratulatory-hug on the ‘A’ you got on your essay the week before.
3 eggs
1 cup of Dad’s teaching you how to throw a Frisbee
½ cup canola oil
4 oz. of your big brother standing between you and the school-bully who pulled your hair when no one was looking.
1 4x6 picture of you and your best friend going out trick-or-treating by yourselves for the first time.
Combine ingredients in your late, great-grandmother’s chipped, antique mixing bowl with the family-crest on the bottom, and beat until you’re exhausted.
Pour in Mom’s old, blackened baking pan. Bake at 350 degrees until she sticks her head out the back-yard door, where you’re on the tire-swing, and yells, “It’s done!!”

The Poets of Bloomswick

   With composition book and Bic pen in tow, I headed to Annie Bloom’s Books, snuggled next to an Irish pub in Multnomah Village; a hamlet of shops I’d been through many times before on my way to the Starbucks, without ever having stopped inside the staple of the village.
   The atmosphere was conducive to a poetry-reading on that cool and crisp October eve. And the shop’s resident mouser, a pink-tongued, black American Bombay named Molly, made the ambiance seem more like I just ended up in neighbor's cozy living room.
   Despite the seemingly endless rows of books, the poets themselves were the promising attraction for the evening. Carolyn Martin, Kathleen Halme, and Sage Cohen would call the small and well-established bookstore their stage for the night. Only, I had no idea what they looked like. They didn’t exactly stand out from the crowd. The ‘meet-n-greet’ of many people beforehand left me wondering from the beginning: just who were the poets in the room? After half a glass of served pinot, I’d allowed myself to imagine flighty-looking hippies, wearing turquoise and silver jewelry, and sporting graceful age-lines. But soon, one of the store’s staff-members stood at a lectern, and announced the first of the three poets.



   Carolyn Martin, former nun, turned savvy business growth-management speaker, turned poet, presented the audience with material she was working forward on. Exodus of Two Testaments, It’s Good To Be Slow, Lines Composed, and Collusion. (Her reading of Collusion had me so enthralled, that, unfortunately, I failed to scrawl down my usual notes of quotable lines, as is my practice.) 
   Kathleen Halme, a native of Wakefield, Michigan, with a fascination in anthropology and biology, graced us with melodic writings in-between praises coming from her husband in the audience; The Bungalow Museum, Incarnation CafĂ©, Evulsion, (my slim memory of this poem suggested an injury once suffered) Drift and Pulse, from the book of the same name, and Equipoise. This last, Ms. Halme explained, was inspired by her enchantment with light-houses.
   Charming the audience with a lively tale of her son, Theo, Sage Cohen revealed she had only just begun a new poem based on a youthful statement made by her ‘primary muse,' as twilight fell one late summer’s eve. Cohen couldn’t resist the tickle to the corner of her mouth when she recounted his words. “Theo asked me to please, ‘Turn the daylight back on’.”
   A native of New Jersey, Cohen ventured west to live in San Francisco, returned to semi-eastern roots, before making her home in Portland, Oregon to relish in ‘greater spaciousness, a worm compost bin, and the freedom to cut a cat door into the side of the house, with no one to tell me it’s not allowed’.
   Like Martin and Halme, Cohen read from a short list of new works; Dear Redbud, A Dictionary of the Cathedral, Dear Scar, (a seeming ode to the C-section she withstood during her son’s birth) Still Life With Cough Drops, and Dear Fritz Guest House. (So, this student couldn’t ‘cheat’ and follow along in her school textbook)
   Question and answer sessions were held after each author prepared to close their moment in the spotlight, so as to shine it upon the audience-poets; I’d given a slight glance over my shoulder now and then to find I wasn’t the only one with ink-markings on my digits.
   An ‘open-mic’ evening of sorts commenced, welcoming a small handful. And I realized my earlier question had been answered: everyone in the room was a poet. A short, pleasantly-plump woman named Liz read two poems, named Haiku, and Japanese Garden in the Rain. Shawna, one of the ‘meet-n-greet’ people I’d met briefly, read her piece, Mandated Grievings. Another, calling himself F.I. Gold, had recited his works, State Park, and Age Old Dilemma, which I’d marked down in my notebook as being awesome, though I don’t remember why. (Sigh. So many notes to take, not taken)   
   During the readings, I heard a light chuckle behind me, as Molly was witnessed playing with the runner-fringe hanging from the lectern. It was her home, after all, and we were the guests she tolerated, so long as she was offered a lap when she so desired.
   In-between these imaginative writers, I braved the waters with a single poem, inspired by Tim O’Brien’s short story collection, The Things They Carried. The short applause each poet (known or unknown) received was met with thankfulness and encouragement.
   Before retreating into the chilly evening, I stopped to thank each of the guests, with special attention to Ms. Cohen, who was honored to know that her work, Writing The Life Poetic, was a classroom textbook for the art she loved. And she warmly accepted my request of a book-signature:
   ‘Such a pleasure to spend an evening of poetry with you. May this book be good company for your adventure.’ ~ Sage Cohen


   Guess I can forget about a ‘book buy-back’ at my school’s campus bookstore.


                              "Books. Cats. Life is good."  ~ Edward Gorey

Automat (An Homage to Edward Hopper)

A love affair in light and dark,
and I could even imagine a sound.
In my head, gazing upon a contrast so stark,
of a lady, canvas bound.
She’d removed only one of her gloves,
as she huddled under the light.
And the yellow domes hanging above,
were ghostly reflections in the night.
With a steaming cup, she sat quietly alone,
the shadows behind her, an abyss.
Her expression was set with an uncertain tone.
Was she waiting for her lover’s kiss?
Each opening sound of the luncheonette’s door,
arose a stir of anticipation.
But without a familiar smile, resolve replaced ardor,
and she was met with a sobering revelation.
‘He isn’t coming,’ her head told her heart,
‘you’re a fool to stay, so just leave.
There’s time enough for you to fall apart,
time abundant, perhaps, to grieve.’
A last sip of liquid warmth, before rising from the table,
buttoning her thin coat against the chill.
His parade of promises had included a mink or sable,
and even that big house on the hill.
But vows mean nothing, when not said before a witness,
at a church, a chapel, or a city hall.
When friends and family can attest a shared kiss,
and, an ‘I do’ can be heard by all.
And so, she turned and exited the automat,
unwittingly leaving her glove behind.
With newfound wisdom, and her pride intact, 
nevermore to live life so blind.


Five Senses

Loneliness:
Looks like a person sitting at a bus stop.

Feels like a room full of people that don’t talk to you.                       
Tastes like a cold dinner.
Sounds like a T.V. playing in the background of an empty room.
Smells like the air, just before it rains.




Joy:
Looks like the grinning, five-year-old niece, who’s been looking out the window, waiting for your car to drive up.
Feels like getting your homework-paper returned, with an ‘A’ on it.
Tastes like Godiva’s white-chocolate-raspberry ice cream.
Sounds like your favorite basketball team making the winning point at the buzzer.
Smells like the kitchen of the little old lady who bakes, whom you’ve lived next door to since you were three years old.